Warner Springs

Taken on my ascent into the San Felipe hills. That's Granite Mountain in the background. I descended from a pass on the westside of the mountain (on the right) and passed through the desert valley. You can just make out Scissors Crossing from where I hitched to Julian. It was nice to look back and see all that I had hiked.

San Felipe Hills

The last 35 miles have been challenging but steady. My left IT Band has improved but the right one started acting up, so some of the down hills have been painful. I left Julian one afternoon around 3 PM. The sun did not show any mercy as I ascended into the San Felipe hills. However, the payoff was the beautiful campsite I found at mile 85, which was tucked away from the wind. As great as it is to meet new and interesting people everyday, I quite enjoyed the solitude of this day and the remoteness of my campsite. Also, as I ascended the San Felipe hills I was able to look back on Granite Mountain, which I had descended from a couple of days prior, and the desert floor I crossed to reach Scissors Crossing, and I felt a small sense of accomplishment. 

Sunset from camp.

The next day I hiked to a water cache at mile 91. Volunteers manage to forklift in palettes of bottled water for hikers, and this provides the only water in the San Felipe hills which runs between Scissors Crossing, at mile 77, and Barrel Springs at 101.4.18 miles to Barrel Springs. One of the biggest challenges of the desert is planning for long miles without reliable water sources and carrying sometimes up to 12-15 lbs of water between sources. The San Felipe Hills were beautiful. However, sometimes very small sections of the trail, which is mostly sand in this section, run out into (what I estimate to be) the 60 degree rocky slopes of the hills. A slip on one of these run offs could be very dangerous, but this is relatively easy to avoid so long as one is paying attention. (Staying hydrated helps with that!)

Forget the Hunger Games. Hiking the PCT is the Thirsty Games.

On the way to Barrel Springs I hit the 100 miles mark! Only 26 more to go. Not every 100 mile mark will feel as momentous, I'm sure. But this one was nice because it was the first 100 and because it felt encouraging. I set up camp at Barrel Springs with the plan of hiking the 9 miles to the Warner Springs community center the next morning.

Philosophical Ramblings

When I left the next morning I encountered a piped gate that was secured shut with a chain. At first glance the chain looked like it was locked and that there would be no way to open the gate, which had barbed wire fence on either side. In addition, there were no trespassing signs posted and the PCT sticker on the gate looked scratched out. The trail ahead was clearly the PCT, so I was confused. This was on BLM territory. For a brief moment I thought I might have inadvertently gotten mixed up in a Y'all-Qaeda scenario (Malheur National Wildlife Refuge) and that if I jumped the gate I might get shot. Fortunately it was only my stupidity at work--the chain was looped around and easy to remove so that one could pass through the gate and move forward on the trail. Still, this got me thinking about public lands, environmental conservation, Leave No Trace, etc. More generally: what is the ethical relationship between humans and non-humans? While I'm not clear on the details, I generally think that what grounds facts about ethical obligations and value are facts about the autonomy of persons, things like the capacity to make plans and follow through with them, and maybe also the motivations and intentions of persons. As a consequence, I tend to think that non-human things are valuable only insofar as humans give them value. Sometimes I worry that this general attitude about ethics is in tension with my love and appreciation of the wilderness and compulsion to support environmental protection and conservation. For example, if I thought that ecosystems had intrinsic value, value that is independent of human activity, or that ecosystems had rights, then it would be easy for me to justify why I think that the preservation of ecosystems through  means such as national parks is important and that we should utilize natural resources in a sustainable way that preserves the ecology. But at the end of the day, I just cannot bring myself to take on this starting assumption, i.e. that ecosystems have mind independent rights. However, I think that it is relatively easy to find the importance of the environment more generally as well as the value of national parks for humans: it has aesthetic, psychological, physiological significance for humans, and, more generally, it provides important resources for human life that should be preserved for future generations, and provides for a robust scientific understanding of human existence (e.g. in understanding climate change and perhaps how to preserve and reproduce important resources).

I think that the aesthetic and historical value of natural landscapes justifies certain conservation practices. Consider the following analogy with the Mona Lisa. Great effort is placed into preserving this painting. If someone were to deface the painting, it would be wrong not because someone's private property was destroyed, but because it would destroy something that humanity collectively values for its aesthetic and historical significance. The compilation of paint on a canvas itself has no intrinsic value but instead its value derives from the intentions of the artist and the significance humanity invests in the resulting product. I think something similar can be said for natural landscapes. Though it is likely that there are no intentions behind the formation of natural landscapes (theists might disagree), most people appreciate the beauty of a sunset on a remote beach, the expansive views from Yosemite Valley, etc. And it is partly in virtue of these aesthetic qualities these environments and ecosystems are considered valuable. I think that this fact at least in part justifies certain conservation practices such as Leave No Trace. Leave No Trace principles promote the preservation of natural environments, and hence the aesthetic and historical value of these environments, by limiting human impact on these environments. For example, if someone were to build a condo high-rise in the middle of Yosemite Valley, this would be nearly equivalent to defacing (and hence destroying) a great work of art. It's not that Yosemite Valley has intrinsic value or that it possess mind independent aesthetic properties. But humanity (or a large portion of it) invests these natural landscapes with aesthetic and historical value. So the responsible thing to do is to act in ways that preserve these environments. Perhaps this argument is too weak for some. Maybe some could not care less about aesthetic or historical value or some think that the natural landscapes have mind independent value. For the first, all I can say is that I think that human intellectual activities such as cultivating aesthetic attitudes towards just about anything (even something as abstract as a mathematical theorem) is critical (maybe even essential) to distinctly human existence. As for the second, all I can say is that push comes to shove (all things being equal), people should act in ways that preserve and promote the flourishing of human existence. Of course stronger arguments could be made on the basis of other aspects of the environment such as its provision of important resources for human life that should be used in a sustainable manner and its contribution to a robust scientific understanding of human existence. But aesthetic and historical considerations have been the most salient for me on this hike.

On our second day of hiking, Michael provided an interesting and strong argument for why he does not eat meat. He wanted me to convince this argument was bad and give him reasons to eat meat since he thoroughly enjoys it. Basically, he argued that the pleasure he derives from eating meat does not outweigh the suffering the animal endures either when being raised in terrible conditions or in death. I said the best way to challenge the argument is to either show that the overall positive consequences of meat consumption (and the industry overall) do justify eating meat (e.g. less environmental impact, economic benefits, etc.). Or to challenge the assumption that what ultimately matters to how we should behave are facts about pleasure and pain. As I mentioned above, maybe be what ultimately matters to how we should behave are facts regarding the autonomy of persons, things like the capacity to make plans and follow through with them, the motivations and intentions of persons, and the capacity to project value onto the world. So, why should I care (ethically) about eating (most) fish? Fish don't seem to make plans or have higher order cognitive capacities. Besides, what's a fish ever gonna do for me?  Fish exhibit behaviors the indicate pain responses, but do fish feel pain the way humans do, i.e. is the quality of the pain anything like what it is for humans? I suppose this is an empirical questions, but I'm skeptical that they do. I do worry, however, about the following potential objection to such an anthropocentric attitude towards animals and the environment. Imagine a civilization of beings that are more cognitively advanced than humans, e.g. we are to them as ants or fish are to us. These beings base their moral* beliefs (beliefs about how they should behave as opposed to how they might in fact behave) on their cognitive capacities. (I'm not sure if I should make it so that moral* propositions are equivalent to moral propositions.) Humans lack certain cognitive skills that these being think are fundamentally important to moral questions. We might even say that what these beings experience as pain is considerably more phenomenologically rich than what humans experience. So to some of these beings human life has no intrinsic value and humans are simpletons that are not (very) morally* relevant. Hence they feel they are justified* in treating humans as means to an end. I'm not sure what to make of this at this point. Maybe some of these beings would argue that the moral* thing to do is to prevent the suffering of humans despite their cognitive simplicity. If this is the case, which if these beings actually exist I hope it is the case, then why should I not take on the same attitude towards cows, fish, maybe even insects? This is a bit unclear to me at the moment, but something I've been thinking about on the hike.

On the way into Warner Springs.

 Warner Springs

On the way to Warner Springs I passed Eagle Rock. Warner Springs is a very small community: it has a post office, a golf course, and an elementary and high school. However, many people in the community open up they community resource center for PCT hikers to camp, wash their clothes in a bucket, and take a bucket shower!

Camp at the Warner Springs resource center.

Most importantly, the main building of the resource center is warm, and it has been chilly here (last night was in the low 30s). I stayed here two nights to let my knees recoup. On the first night, someone came to the resource center to let the hikers know that the elementary school was having a spaghetti dinner fund raiser. For $5 you got a plate of spaghetti, salad, bread, and a drink. About 15 hikers went over. A kitchen cooked meal certainly hit the spot. But I think it was really nice for us hikers to go support the elementary school of a community, that for some crazy reason, cares and invests so much time and energy to crazy thru-hikers.

Cow on the trail.

Eagle Rock!

Week 1: Campo to Julian

Leave No Trace

 
I met some really awesome people at Scout and Frodo's: one couple from Washington, another couple from Pennsylvania, and M from Ohio. All of them have thru-hiked the Appalachian Trail, and I hiked with them for the first four days and learned so much from them. We arrived at the Southern Terminus around 7 AM. My original plan was to hike the approx. 21 miles to Lake Morena all in the first day. But my new, and much more experienced, friends were stopping after 9 miles to camp and planned on hiking the remainder to Lake Morena the next day. While this is a conservative approach, it turns out to be very wise. M said as we approach the terminus, "You're not going to make it to Canada today but you can *not* make it to Canada today." Under the influence of the excitement of starting an adventure like this it can be easy to push hard, but many people drop out in the first 100 miles because of avoidable injuries. I am extremely grateful to have met these experienced and kind hikers.

On our way to camp the first day we came across an abandoned bear canister filled with miscellaneous items and a three piece trowel. There was a note left inside saying "Needed to drop weight. Enjoy." However, it would be inaccurate to think that this was an act of goodwill. It was irresponsible and a result of poor planning. It's irresponsible because the PCT runs mostly through the backcountry. Anything left in the backcountry stays in the backcountry unless someone carries it out. In the backcountry abandoned equipment might as well be considered trash. If park rangers or BLM employees find trash or abandoned equipment, then it makes thru-hikers look bad.  One of the principles of Leave No Trace on the PCT is to plan ahead and not leave with more than you can out. As a result M and I had to take on extra weight and carry the gear out. It doesn't make sense to think other hikers need the equipment—every ounce matters when lifting your pack with every step over rocky and step terrain. Fortunately we ran into border patrol officers 4 miles down the trail and they took the abandoned gear.

So, on the first day we stopped around 1:30 PM and camped at a little under 9 miles from the southern terminus. The sun was relentless and there was zero natural shade. Fortunately the couple from Washington set up a small tarp and with our reflective umbrellas we were able to forge a makeshift oasis. We had lots of time to kill, and, to my surprise, a philosophy talk was requested. So we passed the hours before dinner discussing personal identity and the relationship between culture, religion, and ethics. Everyone was asleep by 8 PM and we were hiking by 4:30 AM.

View from camp after the first day of hiking.

The Desert

Desert heat is no joke. I had to carry 6 liters on the first day (over 10 lbs of water). This kind of water carry is common for the first 700 miles of the trail. Of course, growing up mostly in Florida and living in Miami over the past four years, I'm no stranger to heat. Heat indexes in the 100s and high dew points are the norm for much of the year in South Florida. Miami summers can feel miserable and gross. During the worst of it, living in Miami during the summer is like living in a shallow pan of water with a heat lamp hanging over.  When people from drier, hot climates talk about how it is where they hail from a common response from a south Floridian is "Yeah, but it's a dry heat." That's a bullshit response. It's like telling someone they can choose between being tortured by being water boarded or forced into a hypothermia chamber. Dry heat sucks the life out of you, especially if you're not used to it. Heat exhaustion and dehydration are real risks on the trail that must be taken seriously. Two people had to be evacuated from the trail because they did not bring enough water.

In addition to carrying water, it helps to start hiking early rather than later. I've been waking up at 4 AM, hiking until noon, taking the afternoon off and hiking a couple more hours into the evening. Also, a reflective umbrella helps immensely, though I've also almost been Mary Poppinsed right off the trail by some of the high winds on the high ridges. 

Mt. Laguna

What is it that makes you respond when your name is called?

When the wind blows, trees sing.

After about 37 miles on the trail and a elevation gain to over 5000 ft. you start moving into the montane ecozone of the Mt. Laguna area. Suddenly the chaparral and rocks of the desert are replaced with Jefferson pines and old forest growth. The buzzing of desert flies is replaced by the sound of the winds blowing through the pines creating a calm and constant sound. I spent the day in Mt. Laguna gathering supplies. I set up camp, went to bed early, and set out hiking before 5 AM. The Mt. Laguna area provides only a short respite from the desert, so I immediately began hiking along the ridge bordering the desert of the Cuyapaipe Reservation. However, even better than beating the heat, hiking early allows you to appreciate the delicate beauty of the desert wildflowers and to catch some amazing sunrises.

Desert Flora

Sunrise over the Cuyapaipe Reservation

Back into the desert.

The move into the Anza-Borrego desert was not disappointing.  After hugging the ridge of the reservation for a few miles the trail moves back into the pines and finally winds down and out of the forest onto the western ridges of the Anza-Borrego. The views did not disappoint.

Me overlooking the Anza-Borrego desert.

At this point on the trail I ran into a fellow hiker that I had met in San Diego. We were discussing the challenges of a thru-hike and at one point he referred to thru-hiking the PCT as a sport. I imagine for a lot of people it is a sport. But for me this hike is a meditation, not a sport. It is an opportunity to cultivate patience and gain a deeper understanding of my values. Of course, it is also a chance to experience beautiful things and learn to appreciate the aesthetic qualities of things that I might have otherwise missed, the desert is perfect for practicing just this. I stop often and take a lot of pictures.

Desert flora.

There is an interesting dilemma that I've been facing on the trail. On the one hand, if I stop and take a picture of every beautiful and inspirational thing that I see, then I'll never make it through the Sierras let alone to Canada. On the other hand, if I race through the trail and don't stop to appreciate the awesome things on the trail, then I'll regret not fully appreciating the beauty, especially of the desert, if I end up having to quit the trail early. Many people quit the trail in the first 100-200 miles because the push too hard, too fast. I think the tragedy of this is not so much that you end up having to get off the trail, but that you end up wasting an opportunity to fully experience the beauty of the desert.

Shit Gets Real

The sunrise out of Mt. Laguna was a beautiful start to what ended up being the most challenging day on the trail so far. Pooping on the trail is a reality, but a reality I did not face until my third day thanks to two restroomed pit stops at Morena and Laguna. When the boss needs to talk to you in the office, the responsible thing---i.e. minimizes impact on the trail and surrounding areas so that others can enjoy it and be healthy while doing so---to do as a hiker is to dig a 6-8" hole in the ground at least 200 ft away from the trail, campsites, and water sources. In addition, if you use TP, you should pack it out in a double bag. (TP is biodegradable, but it  generally doesn't do so on the trail before it gets washed out by rain or dug up by animals. The amount of TP on the trail I've seen so far is shameful and gross.) As I left the Mt. Laguna area I felt the urge, and I was actually excited about my first trail bathroom break. I found, what I thought was, a remote area of the trail. However, it was terrible experience. The town food from the day before destroyed my intestines, and I had absent mindedly squatted over some tallish grass---I'll just say that I spent about a half hour sanitizing everything with hand sanitizer when I was finished. To add insult to injury, while I thought I had found a remote area to do my business, as I squatted I looked up to see a (thankfully vacated) picnic table, and, after I *heard* a car drive by, realized I could see a nearby road. Argh!

The rest of the morning and afternoon were not that bad. I hiked about 12 miles to the next water source, which was a horse trough:

Note the spigot. Thank god.

This trough had a spigot which ran from a fire tank that is often refilled. Still, while some do not treat their water, most do and are advised to. I don't want to get knocked off the trail by E. Coli, so I treat all of my water with Aqua Mira.

After, I refilled, I took a brief break to stretch and chat with other hikers in a nearby picnic area. I felt good, so I figured that I would hike another 6 miles to the Sunrise trailhead for more water and to camp. I was going an easy 2 mph, however about a mile, mile and a half, away a pain on the side of my left knee started up. I slowly made my way into the Sunrise trailhead area, which is located directly on the highway, around 6 PM. This area was in a valley and the wind was super cold and gusting well over 25 mph. To make matters worse a layer of low clouds and dense fog started blowing in from the west. I didn't want to camp in the cold, wet, and windy valley exposed to the road (scenarios from horror movies were manifesting in my imagination so fast I now have some marketable script ideas). I hobbled a half mile back to the PCT thinking I'd seen a flat spot to camp on protected from the wind. But this was only wishful thinking. There was no decent area to camp. So I hobbled back to the Sunrise trailhead. In addition to the physical pain, I was confronting my first real mental challenge of the trail. As I limped back in the frigid, relentless wind in the dusk, I started thinking fondly of sunny and balmy Miami. Now, anyone that knows me halfway decent, has probably heard me complain and moan about how much I don't like living in Miami. But as I reflected on Miami while heading back to the trailhead, I couldn't help but think that I was simply a goddamned ungrateful asshole for ever saying or implying one negative thing about Miami. That's how bad my mental space was. And while in the background of my thoughts the possibility of my left knee being so bad that I would have to quit was depressing, in the moment I also felt a sort of ambivalence towards the trail and even a slight hope that I was so injured that I would be forced off the trail. It would be an easy way out.  After I hobbled back into the trailhead I managed to find a spot tucked between two hills just south of the water tank (thanks Halfmile!). I fought the obstinate wind to set up camp and comforted myself with a Snickers bar.

Clouds and fog rolling in from the west.

When I woke up my knee felt a bit better. However, I only made it four miles before the pain returned. I decided that best thing to do would be to take a nero (a day where you only hike a few miles on the trail) and rest my knee up. The wind was still a bully, but I managed to get my tent set up in a nice campsite near a dried creek bed. Two fellow hikers from Canada were passing by on the trail and stopped in to chat for a bit. We were also joined by my first rattlesnake:

My tea time friend.

I took some anti-inflammatories, rolled out my IT band with a baseball, stretched, and went to bed early.

A Day of Rest in Julian

When I woke up the next day my knee felt much better. I started the decent from the desert mountains into the desert valley just 12 miles east of Julian, a hiker friendly town where I planned to take a day of rest. As I hiked I thought about how much I loved the trail and the challenges were merely just that, and I was praying to whatever that the inflammation in my left IT band would subside if I slowed down. But lost in these thoughts as I descended down the winding switchbacks in the biblical hot winds and sun I felt like I was in a Cormac McCarthy novel and imagined the wraith of some wizened old desert trailhand manifesting out of the desert dust and telling me,

Cain't make no deal with the Lord. The Lord done had the course o yer life mapped out when she made her first breath. Go head and try an make a deal. Get whatcha ya done asked for? Then maybe the Lord already set it out. Then maybe you only wasted yer time. But maybe you just made a deal with the Devil. Maybe you done lost your soul. Nothin you can do bout nothing anyway. Least I imagine it.

Fuck that guy. I hobbled down onto the desert floor. When I got to Scissor's Crossing I set up camp with some fellow hikers under a bridge and planned to hitch into Julian the next morning.

Sometimes the line between hiker and gutterpunk is blurred. My tent collapsed in 40+ gusts of overnight winds.

Moisture trying to creep its way into the desert.

I hitched into Julian the next morning with a fellow hiker from Wales. We had an amazing breakfast and shared trail stories. I stayed at the Julien Hotel, which is an amazing bed and breakfast that gives hikers more than half off their regular rate. The décor is fancy. Hiking makes you really dusty and really smelly, so I didn't feel like I was allowed to be there. But the people that run the hotel were super kind and accommodating. As I walked into the tea room, the radio was playing a big band version of Duke Ellington's Satin Doll. The angels were singing.

Back to the Trail

After a couple day of taking it easy, my knee feels much, much better. My aunt Donna also came up from Menifee for lunch!

So I'm going to go get some free pie at Mom's and hitch back to the trail. I'm going to continue my meditation, continue to be patient, and hike slow and steady. I can't wait!

Free pie at Mom's.

On the valley floor on the way to Scissor's Crossing.

Day 1: Zero Day

I arrived in San Diego late last night. San Diego is interesting. Like Miami, it is sprawled out and smeared along the coast. However, the public transportation is much more reliable. I'm also under the impression that San Diego is more culturally diverse; so far I've seen rather large Italian, Mexican, and Korean neighborhoods.

In the hiking community, 'zero days' are days when you wake up and end the day without hiking a bit of the trail. These are often spent in town running errands and perhaps relaxing a bit. My permit start date is for tomorrow, so technically my hike hasn't started yet. Still, I've been treating today as a zero day. I've spent the day taking care of last minute errands. The biggest challenge was trying to figure out how to mail a large ice axe ahead 700 miles on the trail to Kennedy Meadows where I'll possibly need it moving through the Sierra Nevada in June. I also gathered food for the next 12 days, half of which I mailed ahead to Warner Springs. Lots of nuts, quinoa, oatmeal, and cliff bars. Errands aside, I think the best reason to teat today as a zero day is that, perhaps somewhat counterintuitively, it sets a good mental pace for the coming months. Though I'm pretty laid back over all, I have some "type-A" tendencies, and on an expedition like this, such tendencies can lead to burn out and physical injury (e.g. muscle strains, tendinitis, etc.). So today is a good day to focus and reflect.

'Trail angels' are folks who volunteer their time and resources to support thru hikers. Some provide water on exactly trail, some offer rides to and from towns along the trail, and some actually open up their homes to complete strangers. Tonight I am staying with two of these trail bodhisattvas, Scout and Frodo, who hiked the trail back in 2007. Tomorrow morning they will give me and other hikers a ride to the southern terminus if the PCT, which on the US-Mexico border near Campo, California. Let the walking begin!

On the Way

The Plan

I love mountains, but I’ve lived in Florida most of my life. However, I had the great fortune of spending some time in the Sierra Nevada a couple of years ago. While I did spend some time in the Appalachians as a child, I was super impressed by the towering granite peaks and precipitous cliffs of the High Sierra. While I currently live under the massive canopies and Gaudi-esque branch/root configurations of South Florida banyan trees, I was awestruck by the looming stature of the monumental sequoias and redwoods in Sequoia National Park. While I enjoyed tromping through the remnants of an early December blizzard in NYC a few years back, I was thrilled by making snowballs in Carson wilderness during the month of June!  

In February 2015, after watching a quirky documentary about a group of friends thru-hiking the John Muir Trail (JMT), called ‘Mile… Mile & a Half’, I decided I needed more mountains in my life. So I began planning a southbound thru-hike of the ~210 mile JMT, which ends at the summit of Mount Whitney, the highest peak in the contiguous United States. Unfortunately, I quickly discovered that there is a short supply of permits for a very high demand. I learned that one way of getting around this complication is to hike 500+ miles of the Pacific Crest Trail, for which the Pacific Crest Trail Association provides permits. The Pacific Crest Trail (PCT) is a 2660 mile trail that runs through a multitude of mountain ranges from Mexico to Canada. It merges and runs with a very large portion of the JMT, and it is very common to take the short side trip to summit Whitney. Every year hundreds of people attempt to continuously hike from one end of the PCT to the other. More recently, especially after the release of Cheryl Strayed’s book “Wild”, close to 1500 people attempt this thru hike every year. So I started planning a section hike from Walker Pass, which is in the southern Sierra, to Truckee, which is in the northern Sierra.  But after hearing about the beauty of the stark desert landscapes and rolling mountains of the diverse southern California section of the PCT and the majestic Cascades of Oregon and Washington, I decided not to sell myself short and to attempt a thru-hike of the entire trail. After all, the hike takes 4 months and this coming summer is likely the last time in the coming years I will have the time for this awesome endeavor. Will I finish? I'm not sure. But finishing isn't the main motivator nor the main goal.

Will I Survive?

The two most common questions I'm asked when I tell people about my plan are: What are you going to do for food? Is it dangerous? For food I'll be resupplying in the larger towns as I pass through them and mailing food ahead to the smaller towns. The biggest concern for the first 700 miles of the trail (and parts of northern California and southern Oregon) will be water. I will mostly drink from natural sources, which I will treat with aquamarina. However, there are 20-30 miles stretches of the trail with no water, which means I'll sometimes have to carry 6-7 liters (a little over ten pounds). 

Usually people have bears in mind when they ask me if the hike is dangerous. However, bears are not aggressive and tend to avoid people. Bear/human interactions tend to occur when food is involved. Bears become a potential threat when they become habituated to people, so in order to protect both humans and bears proper food storage is important. Throughout the Sierra Nevada, where black bears are more common, you must use a bear canister to store your food. This practice greatly reduces the chances of unfortunate interactions between humans and bears. Rattlesnakes are a potential danger, especially in southern California. However, rattlesnakes are not aggressive and tend to avoid humans or make their presence known with rattling. So the best way to avoid being bit by a rattlesnake is to pay attention. This means I won’t be jamming out to the Wu Tang Clan while I’m walking through the desert. 

There is very little risk of getting lost. The trail is well marked for the most part and I have topo maps and a compass and a GPS app. The biggest dangers are probably hypothermia and sliding down an ice chute into a rock pile or off a cliff. However, this rarely happens on the PCT during the thru-hiking season. More importantly, I have a good shelter and a nice, warm sleeping bag, and I also have an ice axe and crampons for the snow chutes.

How Did You Physically Prepare?

I will be walking 20-25 miles every day with a loaded pack. All in all, my base weight (my pack weight before food and water) is about 18lbs. I had hoped to keep that number at or less than 15lbs, but couldn’t quite manage. It is possible that I will shed some gear as I start the hike. With food and enough water for the desert, my total pack weight will often be close to 40lbs. So another common question I get is: how have you been getting ready---have you been hiking a lot with a loaded backpack? Such a strategy seems reasonable enough. However, I'm not sure that I entirely agree that the best way to prepare for a hike is by hiking a bunch. A lot of injuries on the trail are overuse injuries. Overuse injuries, especially those involving joints and ligaments, often occur because of muscle weakness and poor form. For example, if your muscles are weak, instead of lifting with your quads, glutes, and hip flexors, you lift with your knees, and this puts too much strain on the knees overtime leading to injury. Something similar might be said for the ankles, hips, back, etc. A large point of training for a big hike should be the prevention of injury, and it doesn’t make sense to try and prevent overuse injuries by overusing your body before the hike. I’ll get plenty of hiking on the trail, so to train and prepare I have been doing a lot of strengthening and stretching. I've been focusing on my core, in particular my back and abdominal area. But of course I've been focusing a lot on my legs, in particular my hip flexors, quads, plantar flexors and calves. However, I did complete a couple of practice hikes with a pack, which allowed me to practice my form while hiking with a loaded pack. I'll start slow and build my way up as I hike.

Motivations

Like so many others, I have always been drawn to the idea of making a trek through the wilderness. There are obvious aesthetic reasons to make such a trek—as John Muir (in his usual somewhat hyperbolic fashion) notes,

“No synonym for God is so perfect as Beauty. Whether as seen carving the lines of the mountains with glaciers, or gathering matter into stars, or planning the movements of water, or gardening - still all is Beauty!” 

Of course, there are more personal reasons to make such a trek. This kind of experience will be an opportunity to strip down to the more essential aspects of life, which can create some space in which one can find inspiration and perhaps see what one really values in life more clearly. However, while it is easy to give this kind of endeavor a Transcendentalist, romantic gloss, the reality is that for four months I’ll be sleeping in a tent, pooping in holes that I dig, walking through cold rain, fording turbulent and icy steams, managing blisters, etc. all the while having the easy option to quit and seek the warmth and comfort of four sturdy walls and a bed (and perhaps a little whiskey). I can voluntarily quit at any time, and I imagine sometimes the biggest challenge—even more than the physical—will be not doing just that. Fortunately, my time as a graduate student of philosophy has prepared me for this. But another, more important motivator is all of the wonderful support and encouragement I have received from my colleagues, friends, and family. I have been a bit surprised at how exited people have been when I tell them about this trip, and so I feel that I am attempting this hike for all of us.

Citations

The thru-hiking community is big and there are thousands that have thru-hiked the PCT. I have spent almost a year reading various books, blogs, and online resources. I feel obliged to cite the following, which have helped me prepare immensely: the PCT-L listserv; Mike Clelland’s “Ultralight Backpackin’ Tips”; Karen Berger’s “The Pacific Crest Trail: A Hiker’s Companion”; Travis “Duke” Baron and Eric “ET” Timmerman’s documentary ‘Do Less with More’; and Jackie “Yogi” McDonnell’s “Pacific Trail Handbook 2016-17”.